


worth the risk, worth the guarantee

by piratesails



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Pining, Tropes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-09
Updated: 2016-07-09
Packaged: 2018-07-22 12:22:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,691
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7439041
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/piratesails/pseuds/piratesails
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The rule is simple enough: don't fall for your best friend. No matter how loudly her laugh echoes in your head in the middle of the night, or how beautifully endearing the freckles that climb up her arms look under the afternoon sun. Every single movie and book and story he's come across has warned him of this in one way or another. </p><p>And yet, Killian finds it hard to run out of reasons why Emma Swan is the most perfect person he has and will ever meet.</p>
            </blockquote>





	worth the risk, worth the guarantee

**Author's Note:**

> this fic started out with me gushing over [this beautiful graphic](http://killianswench.tumblr.com/post/145705096668/captain-swan-aesthetic-modern-lieutenant) and then God knows what happened, but I wrote the longest one shot I've ever written to date and I blame Alessandra for all of it. I didn't think it would get past 5k, ha. anyway, I hope you guys like it. huge thanks to [Lana](http://archiveofourown.org/users/FangLang) for helping me make this readable, and in general for being the cutest cheerleader.
> 
> (title from 'give me a try' by the wombats.)

“How many of these do you even have?” Emma asks, poking at the side of his combat boot with the toe of her Converse.

He doesn’t need to see her to know she’s smirking. He doesn’t even need to take his eyes off the fretboard to shift his legs so that he’s managed to trap her foot in between the two of his own. She makes a small sound of annoyance but it’s all he gets in retaliation and he quietly thanks any deity listening that she’s in a good mood today. He doesn’t think he can handle more bruises on his legs, if he’s honest.

“You very well know I only own one pair, Swan.”

“How do they always look so clean?”

He glances up at her shoes, the sides of which are dirt ridden, a stain on the shoelace which could be from the ketchup she spilled on the floor two weeks ago. “I clean them,” he gives her a pointed look before adding, “unlike some people.”

He's known Emma for the better part of his life. (And really, it's been better because she's been in it, as cheesy as that makes him sound.) They'd moved to Storybrooke in early October, four suitcases between his mom, Liam and him. He didn't understand much of it at the time, but they told him it was for the best, that they were going to make a new life here. Emma had been his first - and for a long time, his only - friend in school, had for some reason chosen him to spend her days with and been practically glued to his side since. Not that he’s complaining. When you’re five years old and a cute blonde in pigtails holds your hand to tug you to the slide, it’s not something you fuss about.

And when said cute blonde turns out to be a spitfire of a teenager who’s one of the most important people in your life, that’s when you start believing in miracles.

Simply put, she’s his person. The only problem is that nothing around her has seemed simple in the last few years - the butterflies fluttering up his throat every time she laughs is evidence to that.

(Yeah, fucking cheesy, he knows.)

She huffs, placing her other leg on top of his to create some kind of pretzeled mess of limbs. To anyone else, it wouldn't seem very comfortable, sitting on her porch stairs opposite each other, the railing digging into their backs. But to Killian, it's familiar; they've been doing it since they were too small for their feet to even reach each other. It's just another part of his life with Emma Swan that he doesn't second guess before doing.

“ _Some people_ aren't anal,” she murmurs.

He chuckles, and focuses his attention back on his guitar, strumming the opening chords to _Nine in the Afternoon_ , for what he feels like is the twentieth time. He thinks it might just be more than that by the way Emma groans with annoyance.

“Okay, we get it, you're _so_ punk rock.” She jostles his legs with hers, and breaks out into a grin when he ceases his playing.

“You're mean.”

“You like it,” she hums.

He doesn't argue, knowing full well that she’s hit the nail on the head on that one, even if she doesn’t realise the depth of it. He likes it, he likes her, but she’s his best friend. So, he averts his eyes to the street, instead.

They're almost seniors; he should be able to ask out his best friend if he wants. But some part of him thinks he's missed his moment, and another part isn't sure she sees him as anything but the too shy, semi-awkward kid with bangs that were just a little too long.

Isn’t sure that she’d ever see him as anything that isn't solely platonic in nature.

“Is Liam working late today?”

He nods, not daring to look back at her just yet. Liam pulls a few extra shifts at the docks for most of the summer, and considering it’s just the two of them, it gets a little lonely in the apartment.

And Emma, she knows him far too well. “Okay, then you're staying for dinner.”

He moves to contradict her, tell her it's no big deal, that he will not starve despite what she thinks. (She thinks he spends too much time reading and learning how to play guitar and not enough remembering to eat the food her mother sends over to him.) But before he can say anything, Emma squeezes his legs with hers.

“Don't pick fights that you know you can't win,” she reminds him.

Killian sighs and shakes his head. He doesn't know what he did to deserve Emma Swan in his life, but he's glad for whatever law of the universe that fucked up that day they met.

“You do have a penchant for besting me.”

“Somehow you keep forgetting that,” she grins, stretching her legs so the toe of her shoe knocks against his knee. “Now, music man, how about some Bowie?”

It's his turn to groan, but he obliges. He learnt it for her, anyway.

-/-

The rule is simple enough: don't fall for your best friend. No matter how loudly her laugh echoes in your head in the middle of the night, or how beautifully endearing the freckles that climb up her arms look under the afternoon sun. Every single movie and book and story he's come across has warned him of this in one way or another.

And yet, Killian finds it hard to run out of reasons why Emma Swan is the most perfect person he has and will ever meet.

Maybe he reads too much (books, situations, you name it), and the roots of a hopeless romantic that were in his mother have branched out to him. It is disconcerting, and the more time he spends with her, the worse it gets.

He spends most of his time with her, so one can see how brilliantly that would go.

She spends most of summer with him, even during the days like today when he takes up the part time job at the docks by Liam’s side. It's mainly unloading and reloading cargo, and like clockwork, by late afternoon when his shift ends, Emma strolls by with two ice cream cones in her hands at the ready.

Killian takes a cone from her and swings an arm across her shoulders as they walk along the boardwalk.

“I’ve been thinking that I’d rather like to have my own boat one day,” he says wistfully, watching the line of docked vessels. Emma’s privy to all his dreams, except well, those that involve her. Some days it feels like a secret he shouldn't be keeping from his best friend, but then again, there's the rule to consider.

“Planning on sailing away from your problems, Jones?”

“Doesn't sound too bad, eh?”

“What will you name it? They always name boats, right?”

“Her,” he corrects. And when she raises a brow at him, he explains, “They're referred to in the female pronoun, Swan. Not _it_ , but _her_.”

She shakes her head at him and he expects the eye roll before it’s delivered. “Okay, sorry, didn't mean to insult your non-existent boat,” she retorts, sounding anything but apologetic.

“And just for that, you are not invited to sail around the Atlantic with me,” he grumbles good naturedly, trying not to picture him and Emma spending all their time on a boat together. Trying to remember the rule.

“Please, you wouldn't make it half a day without me there to pull your head out of the ocean.” Emma nudges his chest with her shoulder and smiles up at him. “Come on, what'll you name _her_?”

He shrugs. “How does _The Walrus_ sound?”

Emma crinkles her nose into her Rocky Road and he can't help but be endeared. “What, gonna raid a few ships and kill your men while you’re at it, Captain Flint?”

He laughs, and is about to tell her that you don't grow up in a town called Storybrooke without feeling like you're a part of a story somehow. But Tina’s voice from across the beach cuts through his thought process and then he's being dragged in her direction by Emma as he tries to keep his ice cream from redecorating the sand.

Somehow, he gets swept into a sandcastle making competition between Tina, Ruby, Lance and Emma. It's good reprieve, probably, since it keeps his mind away from the rule that he has most definitely broken time and time again.

-/-

Contrary to popular (Liam’s, primarily) belief, he does have other friends. It's simply that Emma’s friends are his friends and his are hers, and even when he hangs out with other company, she's surely not far behind.

He's been friends with Tina since the fourth grade, and he and Robin have been thick as thieves since they met in middle school. He’s only known Will for about a year, but they get along pretty well, too.

No one else besides Emma, though, is able to highlight his most embarrassing childhood exploits, or know when a quip becomes too much and starts getting to him.

Liam doesn't get it, not really.

“We’re friends, brother,” Killian reminds him over breakfast for the umpteenth time. The fact that he wishes they were more is not something he wants to discuss.

“Ah, and whose fault is that?”

Killian chews on his cereal in an attempt to not deal with his nagging brother.

Liam sighs when he doesn't respond, picking up his plate as he makes his way to the kitchen. “All I'm saying is that you both are perfect for each other and the sooner you both realise it, the better off you'll be,” he calls over his shoulder.

Killian wants to say he's already realised it, just for the sake of one-upping him. But that's yet another discussion that he'd rather shelf until hell freezes over.

-/-

Ruby’s end of summer beach party is, in her own words, expected to be everything straight out of a teen musical.

She’d warned him that if he didn’t bring his guitar and give her a rendition of _Summer Nights_ , she would not be held responsible for something terrible happening to the instrument overnight. Killian isn’t scared of many things, but he is, without a doubt, scared of Ruby Lucas.

He rings the bell to Emma’s house at exactly 6pm and rocks back on heels. Her mother answers the door and ushers him inside with a greeting.

David and Mary Margaret Nolan aren’t Emma’s real parents, but they might as well be. Emma had told him once, her shoulder pressed against his while they sat on the floor of her room, a woman downstairs to finalise the adoption, that this was her second home. She hadn’t been with them her whole life, only since she was two years old, after the Swans gave her back to the system. He hadn’t grasped most of it then; as far as he was concerned, this was her home and they were her family.

As far as he is concerned, anyone who lets her go is out of their bloody mind.

His gratitude for her parents only grew when his mother passed and they unofficially adopted the Jones Brothers, too. In fact, some part of him knows he will forever be indebted to this town for how they'd so readily accepted and jumped to care for the suddenly orphaned boys. Small towns have their advantages, he supposes.

He's sure, though, that the sheriff and the elementary school teacher had initially taken to him because of Emma’s sway over them. Mary Margaret had actually grown fond of him over the years, ensuring that she made extra mashed potatoes for him when he stayed for dinner and calling him up on occasion to ask if he was doing alright. David, well, sometimes he laughs at Killian’s jokes, still surely isn't over the fact that Killian climbed up the tree to Emma’s window at midnight of her 16th birthday just so he could wish her first.

“Are you the designated jukebox this evening?” Mary Margaret inquires, curling a strand of her short black hair behind her ear in a gesture that Emma so often mirrors. If he didn't know, he'd be convinced she was her real mother.

Killian pulls at the guitar case strap on his shoulder. “Unfortunately.”

“He's just doing it because he's scared of Ruby,” Emma clarifies for her mother, bounding down the stairs and making a beeline for the kitchen. She emerges with an icebox that she refuses to let him carry when he offers.

“But Ruby’s such a nice girl,” Mary Margaret says, “although perhaps a little strong willed.”

“Strong willed would be an understatement, Mrs. Nolan.”

“I'll be back by midnight, tell dad not to sneak patrol the beach, please.” She kisses her mother’s cheek and shuts the door behind them just as he calls out his goodbye. “You're such a wimp,” she smirks as they begin walking.

“Swan,” he gasps, mock affronted, “it would not be good form to upset a lady by going back on my word.”

“Decided to be a gentleman tonight, hm?”

“I'm always a gentleman,” he grins, all teeth.

The party is in full swing when they get there, and Ruby envelops them both in welcoming hugs before she rushes off to find Dorothy. It’s loud; the area full of people from their graduating class talking loudly, the music and the crashing of waves fighting to be heard over each other.

By the time someone breaks out the beer, Killian’s soaked from head to toe thanks to a rather unnecessary tackle from Robin that landed him straight in the ocean. He makes his way to the bonfire, which has now been lit with the passing of sunrise, and finds solace in the warmth of the sand under his feet. Until the fire dries him off, every breeze - no matter how humid - is sure to make his skin tingle.

He shakes his hair out to rid himself of most of the water as he walks, and grins when someone makes a noise of annoyance from somewhere to his right. He knows it’s Emma before he even stops and turns to face her. And that only adds to the growing list of things that prove he’s well and truly fucked when it comes to Emma Swan.

(The list in question is more of a length of a short novel. It leaves him toeing the line of something he’s been thinking he could very well identify as love.)

(Bloody insane, that.)

“Do you want to fetch your own flea collar or should I?”

In lieu of a retort, Killian merely scrunches his nose and lets out a growl in her direction. Emma’s eyes widen for a bare second before she rolls them heavenward.

She leans in closer and makes show of sniffing him. “Yep, just what I thought. You smell like wet dog,” she says.

He has droplets catching in his eyelashes, while she stands perfectly dry before him. “Ah, we can’t have that now, can we?”

There must be a hint of mischief in his eyes because she takes half a step back in defense. He’s faster, though, wrapping his arms around her and nuzzling his wet hair into her cheek as a dog would. She does her share of laughing and squealing, pushing at his arms and torso to break free. Her hands are warm where they meet his skin and he feels the heat down to the base of his stomach - he tries exceptionally hard not to think about that right then.

He also tries not to think about how when he pulls her close like this, her body fits perfectly against his.

(Obviously, he fails at both.)

Emma pulls back the minute he loosens his grip, the front of her t-shirt decorated with large water stains. She fixes him with a frown that he finds endearing above anything else.

“Now we match,” he chuckles.

“I hate you,” she mumbles, but he sees the uptick of the corner of her mouth. She brushes off the water from her arms and Killian runs a hand through his still damp hair, pushing it out of his eyes. It only takes her another moment to roll her eyes with a barely suppressed smile. “Beer?” she suggests.

“Only a little.”

She mumbles a halfhearted consent and meets him by the others with two cups in her hands.

With a little bit of alcohol in him, he manages to croon out an astoundingly loud duet of _Summer Nights_ with Ruby; Marian, Dorothy and Robin joining in easily. Though he doesn’t think he manages to _not_ serenade Emma while he’s doing it. She takes it as she always does, a scoff and a comment about childish antics that leads into a dimpled grin.

He switches to more upbeat songs, and his heart swells when Marian pulls a reluctant Emma up to twirl her around. The others join soon after, and Killian’s amazed he can remember the lyrics with how distracted he is watching the firelight catch in Emma’s hair, her laugh so incandescently happy.

He ignores the look Ruby shoots him over Dorothy’s shoulder, and shakes his head as Robin attempts to harmonize with him while jumping up and down.

He winks at Emma when she looks at him pleadingly to get her out of Marian’s hold on her hands, and she pulls her lips into her mouth, no doubt attempting to hide her smile. It’s a handful of moments like these that he thinks Emma may feel something (anything), too, and it leaves his skin tingling for reasons that have nothing to do with the wind.

-/-

A week into the start of school, he gets a job at the local library.

Doing inventory and helping people check out books isn't the most exciting thing he could be doing with his youth, but this way he manages to sneak in a few hours of reading in a week. Emma would call him a nerd if he admitted it. She'd call him a nerd either way, he thinks.

Work at the docks is fine for the summers, but during the school year, this makes more sense. It pays well and isn’t straining on his muscles. Not to mention he's got course catalogues to tear through and college apps to fill out, and the library gives him an advantage of studying while working.

Plus, he likes the company. He hadn't known Belle well before this, her being in a year below him. But, small town life has warranted him seeing her around and working together  has proven she is kind and someone he quite likes analyzing books with.

The place itself is run by August. He’s only seen the man a handful of times; Belle claims he’s working on a novel of some sort, the whole thing being done on an actual typewriter.

“Is he alright?” Killian had asked, index finger tapping his temple to indicate his meaning.

“Eccentric is the word I’d use,” she’d replied with a laugh.

The short walk to Granny’s doesn't cut much into his twenty minute break, and that means he has a little extra time to spend with Emma. How the least personable person he knows got into waitressing, he still can't quite figure out. He can't say he doesn't like watching her attempt not to scowl at the customers, though.

She always has a burger, fries and coffee ready for him when he enters, throwing in a few extra ketchup packets before he asks for them. Some days she joins him, slides into the seat across and steals his fries even though she’d much rather be eating onion rings, asking him about the Algebra homework or detailing her most annoying customers. Some days she doesn’t have time, but manages to smile at him, double dimples and everything, through her usual grimaces.

To him, there’s something special about both of those things.

-/-

 _“Criminal justice,”_ Emma muses from the other end of the call and he smiles.

“Fitting.” He distractedly clicks through a few tabs he has open on his laptop. “Following your father’s line of duty, and all.”

_“Yeah, he's so excited. Did you decide yet?”_

Killian sighs, the weight of the four years after high school heavy on his shoulders already. “It's between engineering, creative writing, or sodding college and opening up a bar.”

She doesn't miss a beat. _“The bar, for sure.”_

“That's what I thought. I'll get Liam to bartend and you can be our top customer.”

 _“If Leroy doesn’t beat me to it_. _”_

Killian chuckles, goes back to his perusal of online prospectuses.

 _“But really?”_ Emma asks, her tone telling him she genuinely wants to know.

“But really, creative writing, I believe.” He exhales, resting his face in his palm.

He hears the smile in Emma’s voice when she says, _“Fitting.”_ There’s a beat, and then, _“Oh my God, it’ll be like Castle.”_

-/-

It’s a bad habit, keeping his bedroom window unlocked. But Storybrooke is relatively safe, the only real threat he has to worry about is the daughter of the sheriff breaking and entering into his home. He’s pretty sure she won’t get charged for it, anyway, so he leaves the latch open and the curtain drawn back only enough to let her know he’s still awake.

He’s re-reading his battered copy of Peter Pan when he hears the telltale signs of her too loud footsteps on the fire escape. The smile creeps unbidden on to his face and he barely even registers that it’s there as he continues reading. When he was younger, he’d had the odd dream every now and then about Peter Pan whisking him away to Neverland on adventures he could only imagine. Some nights he’d press his hands against the glass and watch the stars, trying to pick out the brightest one. He grew out of it eventually, but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t believe in fairytales. 

Emma grunts loudly as she pushes up his window, her hair a mess of curls that manages to hide just about half of her face when she’s done fitting herself through the half open glass.

Fairytales like the ones where the Girl Who Would Grow Up climbs into his room, doesn’t necessarily tug him to another land, but sure as hell gets his heart beating hard enough to think he’s flying.

She blows at it in an attempt to gain some control, but when it doesn’t work she shoves her hands through it and pushes it back. He watches her the whole while, and can’t help but adore the way she gets frustrated.

In two long strides, she flops herself face first down on his bed and groans.

“Landing could have been more graceful, I’d give it an 8 for effort,” he muses, trying and failing to hide the amusement in his voice.

She makes a noise in response and he only grins harder.

He pokes her head and she makes a feeble attempt to swat his hand away even though her face is still firmly glued to his bed sheets.

“I suppose we don’t possess the ability to converse today,” he muses and goes back to his book.

After a few seconds she lifts her head up to regard him, and he can make out her scowl from the corner of his eyes. “I’m tired.”

“Well, if you spent your time resting instead of walking all the way here that would be less of a problem.”

Emma only groans louder and fists her hands in his sheets before smothering herself once more. “If you don’t want me here, I’ll go,” comes her muffled reply, one that completely goes against her unmoving form.

He doesn't even give a second thought to her statement, knowing full well that there would be no world in which he wouldn't want her next to him.

Killian shakes his head with a soft smile and leans over to pull at the hood of her jacket (which, incidentally, is _his_ jacket) to get her attention. When she looks at him again, he opens his arms in invitation and she takes a second to slip off her boots before she comes willingly, wrapping her arms around his torso and resting her head on his shoulder. Once she’s settled, he picks his book back up, fidgeting with the ends of her hair with his other hand.

His eyes drift over the familiar words on the page before drifting down to her. The fact of the matter is that they’ve always been this close, holding on to each other without thinking about it too much. Killian, well, he thinks about it too much, sometimes. Which is also a bad habit, come to think of it.

“You know,” he says in an attempt to save himself from his thoughts spiraling down a rabbit hole, “this building does have an elevator and a front door. That might save some of your strength, too.” Teasing her is safe, easy. Knowing full well when she’s going to roll her eyes or tilt her head as she thinks of a witty retort.

She lifts herself up slightly to look at him, balancing her weight on her elbows. “But if I do that, who’s going to indulge you in your Peter Pan fantasies?”

He opens his mouth and then immediately closes it, eyes going anywhere but to her as he’s sure his cheeks turn red. Emma snickers above him and he fumbles for some kind of explanation. She laughs harder the longer he stays silent, and it would piss him off if it were coming from anyone but Emma.

Most days, being around her reverts him back to the fumbling pre-teen he was, instead of the pre-adult he is now that's learnt a thing or two about being smooth and speaking to girls.

When he finally meets her expression, it's full of mirth. Peter Pan wore all green in the Disney movie, but he thinks Emma doesn't need to do that, the emerald of her eyes is more than enough compensation. His gaze slides down her nose and settles on her lips. She's stopped laughing but they're still curved upwards, her dimples flashing at him. He averts his eyes back up to her own as quickly and as nonchalantly as he can, to wear she's watching him with an expression he can't quite read.

There's something in the stillness right then, and he knows that this is a moment. One of those damned _moments_ that he keeps missing. The one where he tells her that she's all he thinks about, all he’ll ever need, all the stupid sappy things that she will utterly hate and yet -

Yet, she turns him into a bumbling fool and he's willing to let her.

He thinks maybe if he opens his mouth and stops being a coward for a millisecond that he’ll finally be able to get all his words out.

Just as he opens his mouth, though, his bedroom door opens with a loud creak and Liam’s voice and form follow. “Killian, lunch is here- oh, hi Emma.”

“Hi, Liam.” She lifts herself off him completely and sits down beside him instead.

And there goes another moment, slipping through his fingers like pixie dust.

(He has faith, and he has trust, it's just the third one he keeps missing time and time again.)

He doesn't miss the way Liam’s eyes dart to him and the way his eyebrows raise a fraction of an inch in silent teasing. “I apologise, Emma, I didn't order enough pizza for three, but I'm sure Killian won't mind if you eat half his share.” And then, not so silent teasing. His brother truly is a gift.

“Your brother is a hog, I'm going to have to steal his food if I want any of it.”

“Oi!” Killian interjects to no avail, as Liam leaves chuckling down the hallway. He turns to Emma then, who’s climbing off his bed. “Perhaps you're more of a pirate, fancy the moniker of Captain Hook?”

She’s next to him in a few seconds, tugging at his arm to drag him on to the floor need be. “Jones, you do know fairytales aren't real, right? I'm not gonna have to throw you in an asylum or something?” There's skepticism drooping from each syllable, and he wonders if one day she’ll change her mind about seeing magic in this world.

“Is that concern I hear, love?”

Emma scoffs. “Just don't want to have to explain that situation to your brother.”

Killian hums and boops her nose with his index finger. “One day, Swan, you'll believe.”

She glares at him for a breath before catching his wrist in her hand and leading him to the living room.

-/-

In the end, he gives her more than half his share, thinks it has something to do with the way she smiles when he does.

(It's magic, he's convinced.)

-/-

He owes many things to Emma, including but not limited to half his bookshelf, his interest in Star Wars, and his obsession with social media.

It isn't so much that he can't put his phone down, just that Instagram has more or less taken over his life in the last six months since he's had it.

The whole thing is only a glaringly obvious reminder of how apparent Emma Swan is in his life considering she's in (far) more than half of the pictures on his feed. He doesn't realise it until Robin points it out, teasing him with a whine about he is only present in one group photo.

Killian scoffs, but when he pulls his phone out to check, he’s the one that’s proved wrong.

“If you squint, all you’ll see is the shade of her hair,” Robin says over his shoulder.

Killian uses his place to elbow him in the ribs, but squints against his better judgement, anyway.

Robin snatches his phone and studies the page for a few minutes. “82 posts and 70 of them are photos with or of Emma,” he finally says.

“You sod, did you actually _count_?”

“True research requires meticulous study, Jones.”

“I'll show you meticulous study,” Killian grumbles, reaching for his phone. He doesn’t manage to get it; it ends up in Will’s hands instead. He’d been happy when he’d befriended the both of them, since they were from across the pond like him - but now he’s reconsidering it.

“Are we ribbing Jones of his obsession with Emma again?” Will chuckles. “You know, having this many photos of her could be considered stalking.”

“I’m not stalking her. We’re friends, you gits.”

Robin looks at Will. “You can stalk your friends, right?”

“Right,” Will confirms, an expression of thoughtfulness on his face.

By the time he manages to get his phone back, the both of them are roaring with laughter in the middle of the locker room. He vows to get new friends, and pretends not to hear Robin when he says to Will, “It’s ridiculous how clueless the both of them are.”

-/-

Some days are harder than others.

In between studying and his job, the anniversary of his mother’s death creeps up on him and leaves him a little blindsided.

He visits her grave with Liam just as the sun rises, and stays for an hour longer after Liam has left for work. He makes a habit of coming here every week, but this day is something else, keeping him rooted to the ground by her gravestone as he talks to her about his life, about how much things have changed and how they are still exactly the same. He tells her about school, and about his college options, and about his friends. But eventually he forces himself to get up, and with a tentative brush of his palm against the stone and a glance at the orchids on the ground, he makes his way back home.

Much like any other day, their apartment doesn't boom with any kind of activity, and yet the whole place seems almost too quiet. And he makes a conscious decision to not speak too loudly lest it remind him of how much he's lost.

Liam takes a half day and comes home early with takeout from Granny’s, managing a smile for him when he pulls out the photo albums from their place in the top shelf of the hall closet. It's a tradition of sorts, one that started without any spoken agreement, and went on just the same.

And though while sitting with Liam, they recall all the times that Rosaline Jones made them happy, he can't help but also remember her illness and her death. They'd held the wake here, after the service, the small apartment filling up easily with the amount of people who knew and loved his mother. He'd stayed numb through most of it with Emma by his side, her parents handling a lot of the crowd with Liam. He'd been so young then, confused about it all.

It was only when he hit fourteen that he lashed out. The fourth anniversary brought about two broken lamps and a half broken leg of an end table.

Liam had managed to calm him down enough to call Emma and ask her to get there. She'd wasted no time in wrapping her arms around him, and that's when he'd finally cried, pressing his nose into the column of her neck and letting his body be taken over by the wracking sobs.

He sighs as he closes the album and shuffles to the kitchen to get rid of the styrofoam containers. His brother follows him quietly, and Killian feels as though their home is mourning with them, the somber shift in the atmosphere far too apparent. It gets easier with each year, but the ache in his chest that often makes it difficult for him to breathe, he surmises, isn’t really something that will ever go away.

“Emma coming by?” Liam asks once they’ve cleared up and don’t have much else to keep themselves occupied.

“Yeah.”

Liam nods. “Don’t stay out too late.” He’d hated it the first few months, having to shift from having Liam as a brother to him as a parental figure; after a fight or two, though, he’d settled into it, just been glad to have him there at all.

He manages a weak smile along with his nod. Liam mirrors the action, and it’s just as he’s turned to leave that Killian stops him.

“I know I don’t say it enough, brother, but thank you.”

Liam’s arms come around him, and when he pulls back, his smile is a little watery. “She’d be proud of you, little brother.”

“Young brother,” he corrects automatically, “and she’d be proud of the both of us.”

Sure it gets easier with each year, but it’s some different kind of relief altogether when he walks up to Emma waiting under the building for him, a scarf wrapped up to her chin to keep her from the cold. She presses a cup of hot chocolate into his hand wordlessly and starts walking towards the beach.

This was another unspoken tradition, a mix of two of their favourite comforts; her drink and his place. It started on The Year of the Broken Furniture and it went on without any further prompting.

They sit on the bench at the docks for a long while, watching the sun dip behind the horizon, letting the crashing of waves be the only sound to fill the silence. The quiet seems to follow him on this day every year; the world paying its respects.

The more he thinks about it, the more his eyes sting so instead he nudges Emma to move up a little. Even with her side pressed to the handle of the bench, Killian still has to bend his knees to get his body to fit on the seat when he lies down, his head in her lap.

He takes in the sky from there, the few strands of hair that have escaped her braid and move gently alongside the breeze. Emma’s fingers card through his hair and he notices the small smile before she speaks.

“Do you remember the flower crowns? The ones your mom used to make for us?”

“One crown each, every Monday after school.” He smiles.

His mother loved Emma, used to choose the prettiest flowers from their garden for her crown; he remembers pouting and getting upset at that the first few times she’d done it, but he thinks he must have resigned himself to his fate. She used to make one for Liam, too. He has a photo of the three of them standing in Emma’s front yard wearing flowers in their hair, carefully kept in between the pages of an old leather journal of his.

“The daisies suited you. Really brought out these,” she hums, fingers going to tug at the end of his left ear. She's always been one to mercilessly taunt him for his pointed ears - attempts to get him to dress as an elf for every Halloween since they were 7.

He doesn’t have the energy to come up with any substantial reply, so he simply grunts in annoyance and then closes his eyes. She plays with the hair curling around the back of his ear.

The white roses, he thinks, those looked the loveliest on her.

“How are you doing?” she asks, her tone equal parts curiosity and concern. Honestly, he’d be a mess without her.

His mother was his hero - still is, in a lot of ways. She took herself out of a difficult situation and gave them a new life in a place that she’d never been to. She was fierce in the softest way imaginable, and Killian knows that his anger must have been inherited from his father.

Emma tugs at his ear to get his attention and he exhales heavily, a weight sliding off his chest as he speaks. “I miss her.”

He feels her fingers move to his temple which she taps once and says softly, “Well, you have her intelligence.” She doesn’t give him the time to scoff before she’s pinching his cheeks, “And her cheeks.” He looks up at her then, and her thumb goes to trace along his eyebrow before her palm frames his face, the beginnings of the stubble he’s growing out most likely scratching her skin. “And her eyes.”

The wind bites at his nose as Killian leans into her touch, his heart close to bursting. This day always leaves him in a state of emotional imbalance. But he knows his rapid heartbeat isn’t just based on that.

She opens her mouth as if to say something more but promptly shuts it. And then, “We should get going, it's getting late.”

Killian blinks, and by the time he gets himself up, she’s back to looking at him with a less meaningful expression. On the walk back home, he convinces himself that he imagined it.

-/-

When he gets back to his room, he swings his legs out the window and sits on the sill for a long while gazing at the sky. Liam had told him, when he was little, that whenever someone passed, they ended up among the stars so that they could always watch over you.

He talks to his mother for a long stretch of time; telling her how it’s her fault that he’s such a sentimental fool, but how it’s entirely his fault that he fell in love with his best friend.

-/-

“Ugh.” Emma buries her face in her hands, pushing her glasses up onto her head in the process.

He wordlessly slides the half empty plate of onion rings closer to her. Midterms have this effect on her; they change her lifestyle so she’s consuming more coffee than hot chocolate, and sleeping barely a few hours every night. With their History midterm a day away, Ruby convinced her grandmother to graciously let them finish up their studying at the diner where the very much needed supply of greasy food is endless.

Ruby hadn’t lasted, falling asleep in the booth closest to the door an hour ago.

“Come on, love, we’re almost done.”

“How are you so calm about this?” She looks up at him, her glasses falling right back onto her nose without the support of her fingers holding them up. He bites his lip to prevent an endearing smile. “You hate exams.”

“Yes, but they are inevitable and one of us has to be the sane one.” He pushes the plate closer to her until she picks one up and munches on it. “Besides, I have you to help me out. Heaven knows I wouldn’t get through all this on my own,” he gestures to the papers sprawled across the table with a slight frown.

“Who the hell thought this was a good idea, anyway?” she mumbles, glaring at her notes.

“Hey,” he says, reaching for her hand to lightly tug at her index finger to get her attention. “You’re the smartest person I know, Emma, if anyone can do this, it’s you.”

She doesn’t meet his eyes, but he does see the way her cheeks tinge pink at the compliment, even if she might not believe in it wholly. She never does take all his compliments wholeheartedly, which is probably why he strays away from words he would like to use to describe her, in case she just outright scoffs at his honesty. (Radiant, enchanting, bloody marvelous - to name a simple few.)

“Think of it this way, when this is over, we have winter break to ease our sorrows,” he adds.

“Winter break is, like, college apps season,” she sighs.

He uses the back of his pen to push up the thick frames sliding down her nose. He can see the sleep lining the edges of her eyes, and he knows it’s only a matter of time before she passes out. “Yes, but it is also Christmas season.”

Emma hums, and he knows she’s thinking about the gingerbread cookies that her mother is so skilled at making. “Did you buy my gift, yet?” she asks after a moment, poking at his palm where their fingers are still pressing into each other.

“Mhm,” he replies, thinking of the bracelet he got her, silver with carved roses. It made him think of the crowns his mother made, the way Emma would always smell of fresh Spring for the rest of the day.

“I did, too.”

“You got yourself a gift? I know they say it’s the season of giving, Swan, but-”

She kicks him, and he laughs.

“What did you get me?”

“It’s a surprise,” she hums, pulling her hand away from his to grab another onion ring. When she picks up her pen, he takes it as a cue to go back to his own studying, letting Ruby’s soft snores drift be the only sound to fill the silence.

“Killian?” she quietly calls.

He hums in acknowledgement and looks up to see her watching him.

It’s a true testament to her sleep deprived brain that she stops what she’s doing and asks, albeit with a small voice, “You’re not really going to sail around the world without me, right?”

The conversation was months ago, but he remembers it all too well. Killian smiles. “Not on my life, Swan.” For good measure, he crosses an _x_ over his heart, like she used to ask him to do when they were kids.

She nods and goes back to her work, only lasting twenty more minutes before she calls quits. The smile stays on Killian’s face well into the rest of the next day.

-/-

It’s well after 1 in the morning when he’s drowning in textbooks and notes he doesn’t quite remember taking, his last midterm paper due in a few hours, that he calls in for reinforcements.

 _I need help with my work argh._ He texts her, his lips quirking up when he immediately sees the three gray dots show up at the bottom of the screen.

**_I’ve known you for 14 years now and you still can’t do your own work._ **

Killian chuckles, rolls his eyes in what he’s sure is a perfect imitation of her. Some days it’s a realization that hits him that they’ve been in each other’s lives for so long, that it would almost be unnatural to be without her at this point. The thought possesses him for the few seconds it takes him to type out his message.

_You’ve known me for 14 years now and you still can’t tell I’m in love with you._

He backspaces the whole thing before he can do something stupid like hit send. He sends her a sad face emoji instead, and tries not to wonder if the two mean the same thing.

-/-

For Christmas, she gets him a black leather jacket.

“One jacket to go with your one pair of boots,” she says. “Pretty punk rock, huh?” And he's overcome with desire to kiss her right there in the middle of her living room.

He doesn't, of course, the coward he is. But he does post the selfie she takes of the both of them with the Christmas tree he helped her decorate in the back.

(83 posts, and 71 are with or of Emma. Not that he's counting.)

(No, apparently that’s Robin’s job.)

-/-

On the third Friday of the New Year, August decides to close up early because he has to go out of town and it leaves Killian and Belle on the sidewalk outside.

“Granny’s?” he suggests, his usual lunch break only a few ten minutes away. In all the while he’s worked with Belle, he’s never hung out with her outside of the library, no matter how much Will Scarlet has gotten it into his head that Killian should be wingmanning him to her. Will and Belle, now that’s two people he’d never think would end up together.

“That sounds nice,” she agrees. “Your girlfriend works there, right?”

He nearly trips. “Come again?”

“The sheriff’s daughter? Emma?” she says incredulously like he’s going through a bout of amnesia.

“Ah,” he says, a little loss for words, “we aren’t- uh- that is to say, we’re not...together.” He winces as it comes out of his mouth. He’s never actually had to say it to anyone, everyone in his close vicinity never really assuming they were dating.

“Oh, sorry, you guys are together most of the time and I shouldn’t have just assumed,” Belle says sheepishly, a bit of embarrassment colouring her tone.

Killian clears his throat, “That’s- it’s fine, love. No harm.” Maybe a little bit, to his feelings. But, details.

“Still, sorry.”

He shakes his head once again to let her know that it’s alright, pulling the scarf a bit tighter around his neck in self-preservation perhaps. He spots Emma from behind the glass, the pristinely ironed red of Granny’s apron tied around her waist a clash against her torn jeans and slightly wrinkled shirt.

Emma Swan, his girlfriend. Maybe one day, when he stops being such a bloody coward.

When the bell jingles with his entrance, she looks up with a surprised lift of her brows which quickly turns into a smile. Some part of him melts right there. When he sits down at a table, Belle taking the chair beside him, he notices the way her mouth dips with a frown before she turns away to the lady in the booth whose order she’s taking.

By the time she makes her way to him, she isn’t smiling at all. “You’re early.”

“August closed up, he had a travel venture to see to,” he says, darting his eyes across her face in an attempt to get a read on her.

“Right,” she says, and he mirrors her frown.

“You must be Emma,” Belle cuts in, “Killian’s told me a lot about you. I’m Belle, I work with him.”

Emma’s nod is jerky at best and she mumbles a, “Nice to meet you,” before asking for her order.

The sky opens up somewhere halfway through his burger, and Emma still refuses to meet his gaze. Despite Killian’s insistence that she wait out the rain, Belle makes for home anyway, thanking him for his company and telling him she’ll see him next week.

Killian gets up and makes his way to Emma then, stepping into the back room with a rap of his knuckles against the doorway. When she first started working here, the both of them would camp out in the back room during her break, her feet propped up on his lap while he sat on the desk and she on the chair. They'd split a piece of blueberry pie between them, alternating who'd pay for it even though he would rather she didn't at all.

“Swan, are you alright?”

She’s sorting receipts, and he wonders if maybe she didn’t hear him over the sudden downpour rapping against the window.

“Swan?” he walks closer and touches her elbow.

“I’m working, Jones. You shouldn’t be back here, you know.”

He furrows his brows at her clipped tone but doesn’t move. Neither does she, but her hands slow down the longer he stays.

“Emma?” he asks again, and watches as her armour shifts into place around her. She isn't one to shut him out - other people, sure, and maybe he's seen a handful of this in the long years they've known each other, but-

She just doesn't do this to him. And it hurts, he’ll admit.

“Talk to me,” he coaxes again.

“It's nothing, I'm just stressed about college and school and all these things- _God_ , what idiot thought that our whole lives should depend on the choices we make when we’re teenagers?” She's rambling, and he'd find it endearing if he wasn't so worried.

Gently, he rests his hands on her upper arms and she ceases her tirade. He keeps eye contact until she sighs and deflates in his hold.

“Seriously, it’s just waiting to hear back from these places. It’s stressful.”

There’s something more to it, he knows. But she doesn’t seem very forth giving with her information so he nods and lets her have this.

“I have faith in you,” he tugs his mouth up in a smile.

She nods, “I should get back to work.” When he doesn’t pull back his hands, she groans. “I’m fine, Jones.” She pushes at his chest to get him out of the room, and though the smile doesn’t quite reach her eyes, it’s still there, and he counts it as a victory.

-/-

“Movie night at mine this Saturday, your arses better be there,” Tina says by way of greeting, practically ambushing him and Robin by his locker. “Oh, and Jones, call the library girl, Scarlet is driving me insane and I’d much rather have him sitting in a corner making eyes at a girl than breaking my mum’s keepsakes and eating all the food.”

“Wonderful, now we have to endure you, Emma _and_ Will making doe eyes,” Robin chuckles good naturedly when she leaves.

“You make it sound like the three of us have it in for each other.” He shudders, just at the thought. And then again at the thought of Emma and Will. The latter is more selfish than anything else.

“You and Will _would_ make a handsome couple.”

Killian very nearly shoves him into the supply closet.

-/-

She’s avoiding him - that’s the only way he can explain the stunted replies that are a poor attempt at conversation that has lasted over a week. He’s gotten her voicemail twice in the last hour, and if he weren’t seeing her at Tina’s tonight, he’d be knocking at her window by now.

He’s torn between worrying and giving her space to deal with whatever it is she thinks she can’t let him in on. (Did he mention how much that _hurts_?) So, he slips his jacket on and makes his way to Tina’s house, finding the absence of Emma’s company far more distracting than he would have thought.

The fact that Tina opens her door with a, “Hey, Killian, where’s Emma?” isn’t much help at all.

He grabs a soda from the table and flops down on the side of the couch he always sits on, greeting Ruby and Will, who are debating on which movie to choose from the Netflix selection.

Ruby looks up at him after mumbling a distracted response. She narrows her eyes at him, and he feels uncomfortable down to his toes, takes a gulp of his drink to create some kind of barrier. “Where’s Emma?” she asks. He doesn’t exactly need anyone reminding him that the person he’s always around doesn’t particularly wish to be around him right now. He’s not annoyed at her for doing it, only at her for not telling him why. She’s never gone this long without divulging her problems to him. If he knew, maybe he could help; the last thing he wants is Emma’s unhappiness.

“Did you two have a fight?” Will follows.

“No, we did not.”

“Then, where is she?” Ruby raises an eyebrow, as though calling his bullshit. They _didn’t_ have a fight, because a fight would at least make more sense to him.

“On her way.” He can’t bother filtering his clipped tone. “I’m going to go help Tina,” he mutters, making his way to the kitchen before either of them prolongs the conversation further. Maybe if he keeps his hands busy, he won’t think of how if Emma were here, she’d be daring him that he wouldn’t be able to sit through the whole movie without insulting Will once.

He picks up a nacho off the plate Tina’s making and she slaps his hand, but lets him eat it anyway.

“Where’s your mum?” he asks, leaning against the counter. Light conversation will clear his mind. Probably. Hopefully.

“She's out of town for some conference, apparently florists have those, too,” she replies. “Now, are you going to cut the crap or what?”

He's momentarily taken aback, hand frozen halfway towards the plate for another nacho. He drops it to his side. “I don't-”

“Killian Jones,” she warns, and he can do nothing but sigh. “Did you have a fight with Emma?”

“Bloody hell, no, I didn't.”

“Then why are you brooding?”

“I am not,” he crosses his arms over his chest. His relationship with Tina has always been very familial; she's a year older than him and it's automatically made her like an elder sister to him. No matter how infuriating it can be at times with the amount she loves to bicker.

“You know, if you told her you liked her, maybe-”

“I don't,” comes his automatic response. “I don't like her.”

“Yeah,” she scoffs, “that's convincing.”

And maybe it's the way she's staring him down, or the fact that he spent last night decidedly torturing himself by scrolling through all the photos of them in his camera roll, recalling the way she'd shut him out at the diner. Maybe it's all of that and his frustration at his feelings that makes him admit it out loud for the first time.

“I love her.” His voice is so quiet and yet, the words sound too loud in the space. His heart picks up as he says it. Ruby’s laughter filters from living room and he thinks he hears Belle’s voice, too.

“Shit,” Tina releases on a breath.

“Tell me about it.”

She considers him for a bit. She shakes her head and pats his forearm. “Tell _her_ about it.” And then she leaves him standing there, only turning around at the door to say, “And stop brooding, you're killing the night.”

-/-

She's sitting pressed into the other side of the sofa, leaving a large space between them. He feels that space somewhere in his chest, too, like it could open up swallow him whole from the inside out. She'd said hello to him and nothing else, while she spoke to the rest of the group normally, and Tina had looked at him with so much pity.

He leans over to make a few choice comments about the movie but she only hums in her responses. Everyone notices. By now he's sure everyone knows he loves her, too. Probably just from the sodding eyes he makes, if Robin’s words hold any truth.

At least Will’s attempts at making Belle laugh are succeeding, the both of them sitting cross legged at the foot of the sofa. He only knows Emma’s looking at them because he's watching her more than he's watching the movie. The fact that he can miss her when she's right there is _ridiculous_.

His eyes follow her when she gets up, and makes her way upstairs. There's something lodged in his throat, the distance between them increasing. He's so busy watching ( _pining_ ) that he doesn't realise Tina’s paused the movie and they're all staring at him. Seven pairs of eyes locked on to him. It's disconcerting to say the least.

“What?” he all but barks at them.

He sees Tina roll her eyes. “Go after her, you idiot.”

“Fix it,” Lance chimes in, “whatever is going on.”

“I swear, Killian, if you don't go up there-” Ruby starts, but Killian cuts her off with a hurried affirmation and a huff, getting out of his seat. He's glad Dorothy couldn't make it, he doesn't think he would be able to handle a tag team of Ruby and her girlfriend.

He ambles up the staircase, knowing full well the lot of them are going to be straining their ears to listen in.

She's walking out of the bathroom when he reaches the top of the stairs. She falters in her steps when she sees him and that space inside him only grows larger.

“Oh, I was-”

“Are you avoiding me, Swan?” he asks, even though he knows the answer.

She presses herself closer to the wall and looks anywhere but directly at him. Right, of course. He shouldn't be doing this, he knows forcing her to face situations she doesn't want to makes her skittish. Bloody hell.

He recoils, runs a hand through his hair. Tries to go for a gentler tone this time. “Look, Swan, if I did something to upset you, I’d like it if you told me.”

“You didn't,” she huffs and shuts her eyes for a moment. “You didn't upset me.”

“Right, yes, you're just mad at me for fun, then.” He smiles but it holds no happiness.

“I'm not mad at you, I'm just-” She stops herself and lets out a frustrated groan, hands fisting at her sides. He stays where he is even though he'd much rather be looping his arms around her, drawing slow circles on her back to ease her like he's done for years now.

“Emma.”

“I'm mad at myself, alright?” She exhales heavily. “It's stupid, it's fine, I'm sorry. Can we go finish the movie now?”

He takes a careful step closer and when she doesn't move away, another and another until he's right in front of her. Elimination of physical space is one thing, but the way she doesn't look at him tells him it's far from fine.

“Not until you tell me what this is about.”

“It's stupid,” she mumbles.

“Hey, tell me.”

Emma sighs, her eyes flitting across the planes of his face. He can see the exact moment she relents. “When I came here, I wasn’t sure of anything. It was all temporary, and some days I think it still is. But the more I look back, the more I know you’ve been there, like this constant thing that never lets me get too in over my head, you know?” He nods. “You came into the diner that day, and you were with Belle and it’s fucking stupid but I was jealous and I felt like I was losing you.”

Her gaze is fixed to a point over his ear. He tries to grasp at her meaning, and then, disbelievingly, “You were jealous?”

“I don’t know, maybe, God, you’re my best friend and here I am not letting you be potentially interested in someone else because I like you-” She stops, widening her eyes as if that’s something she shouldn’t have said.

And Killian, well, he’s really glad he isn’t strapped to one of those hospital monitors, because the whole neighborhood would be able to hear the too loud, too quick beeps. “You…” He shakes his head, not even being able to let himself hope for too long.

“I...yeah. I think I might have for a while now, and great, now I’ve ruined-”

He doesn’t let her finish, instead lunging forward and crashing his lips onto hers. It only takes her a second before she’s kissing him back with the same kind of enthusiasm, his hands finding her waist. Kissing her, Killian thinks, feels like someone’s breathing life into him; his heart slowing to a grinding pace before picking up with a fierce kind of intensity. Her fingers card through his hair, pull at his shirt collar, wander until they rest at his neck and on his cheek.

Before he knows it, he's stepping forward, pressing her back against the wall. At the same time, he pulls her closer and his breath starts to run short. Simply because he doesn't know what to do with himself when his senses are on such high alert, reacting to the fact that she's gasping into his mouth by short circuiting every inch of him.

She exhales shakily when she pulls back and licks her lips. Killian sways into her, convinced that he’s dreaming.

“You like me,” he whispers.

“And apparently you like me.”

“Swan, I’ve liked you for a long time now.” It’s too early for declarations of love, he thinks.

“Really?”

“How can I not? You're bloody brilliant, amazing.” He punctuates it with a short peck to her lips. Cheesy, cheesy, _cheesy_. Sue him, he's too fucking happy to care.

She shakes her head. “We should go downstairs.”

“Do we really have to?”

“Yes,” she pokes him in his ribs. “And is it okay we don't tell them about, you know, this, just yet? Keep things simple?”

“Figure it out first,” he nods, agreeing, and is rewarded with a slide of her thumb against his cheekbone and shy smile.

-/-

“It'll ruin it,” she says abruptly, feeling like he's missed out on a conversation, like they haven't been walking in silence on the way to her house from Tina’s.

“I'm afraid you're going to have to be a bit more specific, love.” He isn't sure what they are right now, so he refrains from reaching his hand forward and holding hers. _Keep things simple_ , she'd said.

 _I like you_ , she'd said.

(Killian thinks he maybe needs to get that tattooed on his arm, just so he’ll know it's real.)

(He thinks he might just internally combust if she ever tells him she loves him.)

“Our friendship. What if this fucks up our friendship,” she gestures between them.

In all the time he's known of his feelings for her, he's never thought of it as an object of destruction. He'd always thought that it was an amplification of their friendship, but perhaps Emma isn't on the same page as him. He's always been far more optimistic than her.

“It won't.”

She stops walking and he follows suit. The whole small-towns-early-nights thing makes this conversation feel that much more weighted with the quiet of the street.

“And you can see the future?” she teases, before her mouth falls into a frown.

He does grab her hand then, used the other one to cup her cheek. “I don't intend to let you down.”

“I know.”

“Do you want to do this?” He's scared of asking, not knowing if he can go back to the casual intimacy without it meaning something. Without the thumbs sliding against jaws and lips meeting in the middle. He knows he can't lose her, though, despite whatever he may feel. That was what he told himself before, right?

Ultimately, it's her choice. And he will take whatever she gives him.

She nods, a bit hesitant. Then squeezes his hand. “Yes,” she says confidently.

He slides his hand into her hair and leans in for a lingering kiss, one that she chases when he pulls back. It's as though they've been doing this forever, the way they move in perfect tandem. Killian chuckles softly.

“What?” she asks, thumbing at the zipper of his jacket.

“I just never thought this would happen.”

“Were you planning on spending your whole life just hoping I'd wake up one day and it would hit me?” He shrugs, and she smirks. “You read too many romance novels.”

“Perhaps.” He curls his fingers in the back belt loops of her jeans, keeping her close to him.

“You're an idiot.” Her laughter echoes through the air and curls his toes. “But, like, my favourite idiot.”

“You're my favourite everything.” He places a kiss on her cheek as it tints red. Magic, that's what she is.

“Hey, Jones,” she says, and he hums, unconsciously licking his lips. “Do you want to go out with me?”

“I don't know,” he feigns disinterest, “I'll have to check my calendar.”

She uses the palms at his chest to shove him backward, but he doesn't get too far with his hands still anchored around her. “Next Friday, pick me up at 8.”

The force of his grin threatens to split his face in two. “As you wish.”

-/-

 _When did you know?_ He texts her a few nights later.

**_I think it was when you climbed through my window. Very Tangled of you. You?_ **

_When you asked me to hold your hand down the slide._

**_We were 5._ **

_I know._

**_Idiot._** He can practically hear her smile in the words.

_Ah, but I'm your idiot._

**_And don't you forget it._ **

-/-

“No tree climbing today?” David crosses his arms over his chest and raises an intimidating eyebrow as Killian steps into the house, thinking maybe he shouldn't have shut the door behind him.

He channels all the confidence he has in him. “Although I do admire ostentatious methods when getting a lady’s attention, Mr. Nolan, I prefer traditional methods when courting her.” He keeps his face leveled despite his urge to break out into a full blown grin at the thought of courting Emma. (“Dating,” she’d corrected him, “people in this century _date_.” “Well, I apologize for having _class_.”)

David’s face goes through a strange set of emotions (confusion, the most prominent) until his arms loosen and he just stares at Killian. He isn’t afraid of Emma’s father, despite his position of authority, but he does respect him. So it’s an odd mixture of smugness and shame that he feels when David doesn’t particularly know what to say.

Killian clears his throat. “I assumed Emma had spoken to you about- uh- this...us.”

“No, she hadn’t. But those are things she’d rather talk to her mom about, I guess.”

As though summoned, Mary Margaret makes her way down the stairs, taking in the scene before her. She sighs when she reaches them. “David, I told you to be nice.”

“I am!” He throws his hands out in Killian’s direction as though it’s proof enough. Mary Margaret only shakes her head, a smile on her lips. Then, “You didn’t tell me they were going on a date.”

“Why else would I ask you to be nice?”

“Because you enjoy spreading kindness wherever you go?”

“Are you trying to win me over with compliments right now, David, because-”

He’s so wrapped up in their affectionate exchange that he misses Emma’s descent from her room upstairs until she’s standing next to him, her hand squeezing his elbow. He whips his head to take her in, a vision in a light pink dress and her hair in a ponytail.

“They could go on for hours, we should duck out while we have the chance,” she whispers, a fond smile on her face.

Killian smirks. He loves her more with each day.

“After you, my love.”

Her parents only notice once she’s pulled the door open, Mary Margaret’s insisting Emma let her take one photo of them before they go.

“We’re already late, take one at prom!” she says, already out the door.

Killian swears he hears David mumble, “It’s about time they did this,” before he closes the door shut behind him. It leaves an incredulous smile on his lips.

Emma waits for him halfway down the walkway of her yard, her skirt blowing with the timid breeze of the cool night. She lets her hands travel up his chest to absentmindedly play with the collar of his jacket once he’s in front of her; he, in turn, leisurely wraps his arms around her waist.

“Hi,” she says softly.

If their first kiss counts as their starting point, they've been dating for six days, and he can attest that it's the same (their banter, their friendship, the way she doesn't think twice before punching him in the arm) but different in so many ways. Like, well, this.

They’ve been in this position hundreds of times, but never like this - never when Emma’s giving him shy smiles, never when he isn’t conscious about his rapid heartbeat lest she hear it, never when he doesn’t have to physically restrain himself from bending his head and kissing her.

And kiss her he does. It’s a gentle brush of his lips on hers, but it leaves his mind buzzing.

“Hi,” he replies, nudging his nose against hers.

She leans back with an exhale, and intertwines their fingers, pulling him to walk forward.

“Wait,” he furrows his brows, tugging at their joined at hands so she stops and looks at him. “Did you just ask me to prom?”

Emma only laughs, and kisses him again.


End file.
